My Soulmates are IDOLS Books 2+3 | 18+ [SoulBond Series]

309-314: Chapter 8

Amber was being melodramatic.

That was the only explanation she had for the utter misery that ravaged her stunned, dazed body. She was ridiculously fortunate to have seven men in her entourage, and Rumi's body never left the arms of her fathers.

The child did not need to lie in her mother's paralyzed arm for more than a few minutes at a time. And there was plenty of excuse not to, between sips of seaweed soup her soulmates insisted she consume, and with the stitches lining her belly like traps that could spring open with blood.

Their enthusiasm was a blessing in disguise, one that made guilt stir in Amber's guts.

While she did not want to hold the child longer than she needed to, her soulmates were determined to carry her as long as they could. Her lovers had expected a premature baby—riddled with blue veins and skin so thin it was almost see-through.

More than once they spoke tales of themselves, circling outside the operation theatre picturing an infant strapped into a machine that whirred. A child covered with tubes that fed and nourished, a child on the brink of death.

None dared to dream of the baby that was healthy enough to take each breath on her own and move with an energy unlike one of her size. And that seemed to fuel her soulmates with a grateful zeal for the riches they were blessed with. A benefit to the ordeal that could only get worse.

There were moments when Amber watched as her soulmates whispered sweet nothings to their daughter, gentle smiles that had her heart melting for their radiating love. Her heart was not immune to what she could only describe as the picture-perfect image of their future.

JieMi would kiss Rumi as MinJae bent over to watch, giggling as their heads bumped and the child stared. Sunlight bathed the trio in a wash of gold, as the others jiggled toys and took photographs of the smiling baby. Rumi seemed to like them more than Amber, evident in the gummy smiles she gave them. It was a thought that greatly disturbed Amber and made the task of loving her seem harder.

The baby and her soulmates were generic symbols of love, models of parenthood illuminated by soft sun and sweet little gurgles. A bleeding contrast to the failure that was Amber's heart, so lacking in love, and so lacking in empathy. And God, she hated these thoughts, knew with deadly accuracy that her head was harping on dangerous self-loathing words that one shouldn't repeat.

No one could be perfect.

She shouldn't even try to be.

And there was no reason for her to strive or think of the difficulties of achieving such perfection. It was idiotic; it was childish. It was ideas that shouldn't grace the mind of an adult that should know by now that adults were never perfect.

As much as she'd boasted about perfection in the eyes of Casper's family, there was no law tying her to achieve such ideals. She didn't have to make homemade food if she couldn't do it. She didn't have to worry about fucking up when she had yet to learn or try.

Amber just wasn't mentally prepared for the weight of Rumi that she had to bear on her shoulders. Amber would get better with time. She was sure of it. Her soulmates were sure of it.

And of course, the relationship she had with her child shouldn't bear the brunt of such vicious thoughts. Notions that she should stamp out like a wet towel or baking soda to grease fire in the pot, instead of the bucket of water she seemed to continuously douse upon the flames. Even if the thoughts felt right, just as how water to fire felt right. It was knowledge that would burn her to the ground.

Her child.

It was starting to register in her head, the idea that this stranger had been borne from her body, laid silently in her guts like a corpse in a cemetery. While the child was ugly—none would deny that she was wrinkled like an elderly, wailed like a banshee and frowned so deep her eyes always seemed angry—Amber would admit that Rumi was cute with her tiny fingers and toes.